


The Lit Lantern

by loghain



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an injury, Hawke forces Fenris to go see Anders for healing. Tensions arise, and eventually, the pair get physical in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lit Lantern

“Fenris!”

The elf grimaces and turns over in his bed as he hears the door to his mansion click open, and the clap of boots on hard stone. He dares to drag the covers over his head, burying down in the sheets, and listens to the sound of Hawke jogging up the steps - two at a time, he judges. 

“ _There_ you are,” Hawke tuts, his voice closing in as Fenris listens to him walk into his room. “You know, considering Danarius left this place for dust three years ago, you really could clean up in here... make it a little more homely... A few less skeletons might be a start...”

A long pause.

“What are you _doing_ , Fenris?” He can hear the wicked smile on Hawke’s face, the quirked eyebrow, as he says, “Am I interrupting something?” 

Fenris groans, spitting, “No.” and flings the covers from his head, heaving himself up into a seating position with one arm. The cocky expression immediately leaves Hawke’s face, and the mage asks, “Fenris?” He closes in on the bed. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Fenris mutters, batting Hawke’s hands away when they reach out to touch his face.

“You’re pale as death,” Hawke counters angrily, “And that’s saying something. You’re nearly the same color as your markings.” Fenris is sure he’s exaggerating, but it makes him look up with the tiniest jab of worry in his gut all the same. Hawke’s golden eyes hold genuine concern. It’s more than Fenris deserves. “What happened?” He urges.

Fenris lifts a bandaged arm out towards Hawke reluctantly, who makes an angry noise in the back of his throat, sitting on the edge of the bed and immediately undoing the bandages. “When did you last change these, for Andraste’s sake?” He makes a face, turning his head aside when confronted with the smell.

The wound he reveals under stained cloth is red and angry around the edges, weeping and sore, his arm mottled with bruises, and Fenris knows that he should have had it looked at long before now. He’s been taking potions, but they’ve only lessened the pain, not healed him. And as the wound got worse and refused to heal, it got harder to admit that he needed help. So he’s hidden himself away in his mansion for the best part of a week, praying that Hawke doesn’t come calling.

Of course, Hawke always comes calling eventually. “How did this happen?”

“A war hound,” Fenris admits reluctantly, as Hawke crosses the room and finds alcohol that he promptly cleans the deep bite with. Fenris grits his teeth against the pain and reels.

“A blighted Mabari is the reason you’ve been holed up in here?” Hawke raises his eyebrows, then shakes his head. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. “I can’t even heal this. You need to go see Anders.”

Fenris bolts upright then, saying sharply, “What? No! I’m not going to the mage!”

“Well, okay, but it’s already infected and this could go really bad, and I mean, you could even lose the arm,” Hawke drawls, folding his arms and standing up. Fenris stares up at him. “But, y’know, fine. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He pats Fenris on the top of his head, earning him a glare. “You just stay here then.”

~***~

“Blighted _mages_ ,” Fenris growls, marching through Darktown to Anders’s clinic. He holds his wounded arm braced against his chest. Hawke had been kind enough to wrap it fresh for him when Fenris finally relented and agreed to go get healed, but the pain - where it had been a dull throb before - is now fresh and sharp and intense thanks to Hawke’s cleaning attempts.

He isn’t looking forward to this. The Mabari had been a vicious beast, one of the dog lord’s pups, and Fenris had been attacked by them whilst he was returning to his mansion at night. One elf against multiple Mabari, and it’s understandable surely that he’d suffer some affliction.

Anders won’t see it that way. He’ll probably find this hilarious.

Still, Fenris is no fool once he gets past his pride. He knows that Hawke is right about the wound turning bad,  so he only hesitates a moment when he reaches the doors of the clinic. He stares up at the lit lanterns hanging above them, and sighs grumpily and pushes open the door closest to him.

Anders has his back to him when he comes in, leant over his desk. The clinic is totally empty as Fenris looks around - an unusual sight, but he isn’t going to complain. He’d rather not be seen in here by anyone anyway. Associating with mages isn’t something Fenris isn’t keen on anyway, but Anders...? Anders is a dangerous abomination with a grating personality.

Anders straightens up, brushing off his feather pauldrons. Fenris purses his lips. For all that the rest of his clothes are falling apart, Anders is ridiculously fond of his feathers. It’s... _irritating_. He shifts from foot to foot, trying to think of something appropriate to say, and he settles eventually for, “Mage.”

Anders’s shoulders visibly tighten and he turns with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, you! Just the face I needed to see to brighten my day!” Fenris scowls. Anders beams at him. “Charming, really.” He approaches, clearly formulating another smart-arse comment in his mind, and then pauses. “You’re hurt.”

Fenris tips his chin down and looks at his bandaged arm, then thrusts it out towards the mage. Anders raises an eyebrow. “Is this how you ask everyone for help? I don’t know how you’re not _surrounded_ by friends and adoring suitors.”

Fenris clenches his fists, but then winces; his pain betrays him and for once, there’s a flash of something like sympathy in Anders’s eyes. Grand. Sympathy from an abomination is the last thing Fenris wants or needs. “Let me see,” Anders says, all healer now, his voice holding no trace of the usual venom he reserves specially for the elf.

He slices off the bandages rather than unwind them, and makes a face at the festering wound and raises a critical eyebrow at Fenris. “You were on the run for years. How in the Void did you survive if you let something as simple as a _dog bite_ go bad?” He clicks his tongue and falls silent, taking Fenris’s wrist in between his fingers, then he raises his other hand above his arm.

It begins to glow, blue light swimming out from his hands, and Fenris has to turn his head aside. In the heat of battle, he can stand magic. The spells whistle past him and he’s too busy slicing the opponent in half to care, but outside of battle, he will take any opportunity to avoid magic.

The cursed thing has tainted his life for far too long. Even if Hawke - “All done,” Anders says, suddenly, withdrawing his hands. Fenris glances at him. He suddenly looks ten times more tired. 

The words are out of his mouth before he even considers the weight behind them. “It must be exhausting, being a damned abomination.”

The fist connects with his jaw before he even registers it. Fenris’ head snaps back and he reels, staggering, and Anders yelps, shaking his fist and blowing on the knuckles. “Don’t you ever _stop_?” Anders snaps, bitter and resentful once more. “Do you never have days where you decide that maybe it wouldn’t kill you to smile and not be a complete bastard to everyone around you?”

Fenris spits blood where he’d bitten his tongue in surprise, not at all sorry when it splatters onto the mage’s boot, and counters, “I’ll stop if you stop being a monster.”

Anders throws up his hands. “Is that all you have against me? That I am a mage and that I have another spirit inside me?” He splays his fingers out for Fenris to see, and tells him, “You don’t even enrage me any longer. You _frustrate_ me. Justice sees you as a fly to swat, and I see you as Hawke’s pet.”

Fenris bristles, balling his fists. “I am no pet.”

“Oh, you are,” Anders sneers. “You trail after him like a faithful pup and then turn on anyone who dares threaten your spot as the master’s favorite. It’s no wonder he left you - ”

Fenris cannot abide by the things Anders says any longer. He’s _wrong_ , and a liar, and it only takes Fenris a minute to decide that he should hit back - and he does so, with his bitten arm. It doesn’t hurt at all, completely healed together by magic, and as Anders sways back, lip split, he says, “You are good at healing, mage,” and hits him again.

Anders is a good combatant, worthy in any battle - when he has his full power. But like this, Anders is nothing but a sap, staggering under each punch that Fenris lays on him. He drives a knee up into Anders’s stomach and the mage doubles, falling to his knees, and Fenris kicks. Hard.

“You are weak,” he snarls, leaning close as Anders keels over and lies on his back, wheezing. “And you know nothing.” He presses a foot onto Anders’s chest, just to make him even more breathless. “I left Hawke. My choice. My decision. You were his second choice. A replacement.”

Anders’s golden eyes crease and narrow, and he grabs at Fenris’ ankle, trying to shove him off. Fenris relents, then, taking a step away and turning his back on Anders - foolishly.

There’s a crack across his legs and Fenris finds himself felled to his knees. He rolls, not allowing the pain to distract him, and sees Anders had managed to grab his staff and whack him down. Anders half heaves himself to his feet, looking as though he plans to walk away, and so Fenris dares to shuffle himself up onto his arms and start to back off.

Anders changes his mind and throws the staff aside and is on him in moments, before Fenris can move, pinning him down with his entire body weight. A hand grabs him hard by the hair, and then Anders is landing hard blows to his face and spitting, “I am _not weak_!”

His fist crunches against Fenris’ cheekbone, then his jaw, and his scalp feels like it’s going to be torn apart. He manages to snakes a hand up and pull the mage’s hair in retaliation, hard and punishing, earning him enough distraction to head-butt Anders and throw him down on the ground beside him, and lash out a blow of his own, straight on Anders’s nose.

He throws Anders aside with all of his strength, and swears under his breath as Anders barely lets go of his hair in time to avoid yanking it out.

Even bloodied and bruised and panting, Anders hauls himself to his hands and knees and hisses, “If Hawke didn’t have rules against it, I’d kill you, Fenris.”

“I should have killed you the moment I discovered what you are,” Fenris snarls, animalistic and aware of it. He tackles Anders one last time, but as he’s preparing to throttle the life out of him, his knee slips between Anders’s thighs and he freezes up.

“Realizing you can’t win?” Anders challenges. 

Fenris stands, and points a shaking, appalled finger at him. “You,” he rasps.

“Me,” Anders replies, looking remarkably calm for a man with cuts and bruises blossoming across his entire face. Fenris can’t even form the words. Anders doesn’t move from his place on the ground, and then spits, annoyed, “Stop looking so scandalized.” He sits up on his elbows, and tips his head to the side. “You’re hard, too, have been ever since I started fighting back.”

Fenris doesn’t glance down at himself. He has no desire to give the mage the satisfaction, but he realizes quickly that he is. “It’s time for me to leave.” He steps over Anders, and he’s just about out of the door when he hears something that sets him on edge. “What?”

“You’re _weak_ ,” Anders repeats, not looking at him. “You blame mages and slavers and you call everyone around you weak for the same thing that you gave into with Hawke, the same thing you have _right now_ \- temptation.” He stands up straight, spine cracking as he stretches. He’s the picture of bad health right now; bruises blossoming everywhere, blood trickling down his face. Anders swipes his tongue across his lips, and says, “If you gave in a little more, you might have friends. Hawke might’ve stayed with you.”

He steps forward, and Fenris is afraid of the words that come next, so he spitefully says the first thing to come to mind, “Did giving in to temptation help you with _Karl_?”

Something flickers in the mage’s eyes, and Fenris feels a bubble of triumph as Anders deflects with, “Why, it depends what you mean. Did it help in the Ferelden circle when I went to my knees in front of him for the first time? Yes, a good deal.” Anders smiles widely, and his voice is enough to make Fenris shiver - but of course, he suppresses it. _Not weak_. “My turn. Did it help you with Danarius?”

Fenris is on Anders in a second, throwing a punch that the mage manages to block. His fury is his downfall, apparently - Anders manages to pin Fenris against a pillar, wrists either side of his head, their bodies far too close, the smell of blood and... _need_ , raw need pulsing through the air. Fenris juts his chin out proudly. If the mage kisses him, he won’t kiss back.

He’s taken by surprise when Anders mouths at his neck instead, teeth dragging over skin, and a thigh jams between his own and presses up, and Fenris bites his tongue so he won’t make noise. He grabs at Anders’ hair, and pushes him away, serving only to crash him against the table and rut against him.

Fenris will hate himself for this, but for the moment, his head is devoid of thought, entirely clean and blank, and all that the elf can do is... this, yanking Anders’s head back by the hair to expose his throat. Thoughtless, primal, rutting, biting entirely too hard at pale throat and snarling against the line of his jaw, the blood pumping in his ears, Anders giving him a shameless moan that makes Fenris so _angry_ that he’s almost blind.

But definitely turned on. Incredibly turned on.

He’s ashamed, already. But that can wait. Shame can wait for the long night ahead, when he’ll have nobody to distract him from his thoughts. Shame can wait until he’s won, because this is still a competition, and Fenris won’t lose to this... abomination.

“You make it clear how much Hawke loves you,” Fenris snaps, his breathing ragged, “You boast and you brag, and you claim how you love him back and yet here you are, Anders.” He drags his hand down, cups Anders’s crotch through his robes and squeezes, “Yes, it’s obvious how well things are going for you.”

“If you keep talking you’re going to _ruin it_ ,” Anders hisses, arching into Fenris’s grasp. He grabs hard at Fenris’s arse, and the elf jumps involuntarily, and the mages laughs. 

Fenris cracks their foreheads together in retaliation, and growls, “Stop giving me reason to speak.” He drops his fingers away from Anders - he doesn’t know what he plans to do, but it doesn’t matter in the end anyway, since Anders decides to barrel into him with his shoulder and bring them both crashing to the floor.

Anders is a weight on top of him, but no fists come smashing into his face, no knees or elbows jab into unfortunate places. Instead, Anders slots between his thighs, rolls his hips, and Fenris - in a terrible slip - exhales sharply enough, loudly enough, to be a gasp, and struggles to push the mage off of him.

Anders puts all his effort into staying there, though, and then a hand is suddenly delving into his pants and Anders has calloused, long, thin fingers wrapped around his cock.

This can not be happening. Anders isn’t permitted the upper hand. He can’t _win_. Fenris will not lose. But he bucks up into that touch, those clever fingers that Fenris is willing to bet have touched far too many people over the years, fingers that twist and grasp and tug and Fenris moans, he can’t help it.

But he won’t let it end this way. He’s going to pull them back onto even footing. He rips at Anders’s jacket, pulling shirt and coat out of the way to get open his pants, and he feels a sharp thrill when he touches Anders and earns a low moan. 

They thrust their hips together, bones and hands and cocks clashing, Anders’s teeth suddenly at Fenris’s ear, hands not touching grasping and clawing instead. There is nothing kind or beautiful or soft about anything. He can taste blood, feel nothing but pain between the shooting pleasure... and Fenris revels in it. It’s a potent, powerful feeling, to be so at war and yet suddenly so intimate with this man, this thing he hates. For the moment, it makes every single thing worth it, every bruise and scrape that he’ll refuse to let Anders heal later.

It’s what gives him the strength to push them over, to half-straddle Anders, to cry out as they thrust and grip and make a mess of themselves in their fight to make the other come first, to prove each other weak and nothing more than sacks of flesh and bone prone to anything, and in a final thoughtless move to push the boundaries he kisses Anders.

Their teeth clash and clack and it hurts, but no more than the rest of it. Anders bites Fenris’s lip, so hard it bleeds, and then they’re back in for more, tongues pushing and pulsing and there’s the taste of something electric between them. Lyrium. Justice. Something metallic, something otherworldly, and Anders kisses the pulse on his neck and twists his hand, and Fenris comes with a loud cry.

Anders pushes them back over as Fenris crumples, his world going blurry as the shock of his orgasm waves through him, and distantly he’s aware of Anders bringing himself over the edge with a groan

When it’s over - when it’s really over, when Fenris can hear what’s going on around him and no longer just the blood in his ear and his own breathing, he’s aware of that familiar sticky sensation, aware of Anders warm and close, aware of the dirt pressing at the back of his skull and how thick the air feels.

“Get off me,” he whispers, then clears his throat and puts some venom back into it, “ _Get off me_.”

“Oh, we’re not going to cuddle?” Anders exclaims, then he snorts and rolls away, flopping onto his back. “We should violently insult each other more often,” he says decisively, and Fenris glances over to see the mage tonguing a cut on his lip.

Fenris scowls, all that hate and anger rushing back as he suitably rearranges himself and climbs to his feet. He wishes he could put in a deep, cutting retort of some sort, but his tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, and he can’t bring himself to speak.

So he walks away. And Anders lets him.


End file.
